


I'm not gonna hurt you (yet)

by writing_and_worrying



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Dehumanization, Detectives, Drinking, Graphic Description of Corpses, Horror, I had not seen Hannibal before I started this, Knives, Like. A lot, Manipulation, Murder, Private Investigators, Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Violence, a lot of unnamed characters get eaten, and cutting those corpses up, meat cute lol, there's actually not any on-screen murder, tommy isnt involved in anything Bad TM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:35:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29677794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_and_worrying/pseuds/writing_and_worrying
Summary: Private Detective Karl Jacobs has picked up the case of 'The Butcher', a serial killer who has been ripping out the hearts of his victims. He's in a race against the clock to solve the case before another person goes missing, or before someone he loves gets hurt.aka: the Hannibal au except I've never seen Hannibal! Title from 'The Dismemberment Song'---DISCLAIMER: this is a darkfic. And by darkfic I mean really dark. As you can see by the tags, things aren't very fun, nor are they dealt with in healthy, legal ways. None of the main 'characters' get killed, though some get Hurt with a capital H. If you want to know the vibes this will have, check out my other works first. Don't send this to CCs, it's purely a work of fiction set in a completely different world from our own, not a streamer-based irl au. Don't read this if you're sensitive to anything in the tags, or don't have a strong stomach. Enjoy!OH ALSO I DON'T CONDONE MURDER :thumbs_up:
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), can be read as a qpr between Karl and Sapnap
Comments: 16
Kudos: 17





	I'm not gonna hurt you (yet)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey,,,,,, how y'all doin,,
> 
> My readers, patiently waiting for me to update my other two fics: :)  
> Me, posting this instead: you don't matter
> 
> I started watching Hannibal literally yesterday. I planned this fic out like a week ago. I'm so annoyed that none of my ideas sound original now lol. Oh well. Hopefully you can find some enjoyment (?) in this fic. Let me know what you think in the comments :)
> 
> Also this isn't shipping. I know this first chapter feels kind of shippy, but it's really, really not. If I see any shippers it's on SIGHT.

A large, spotless kitchen, illuminated only by the lights built into the ceiling, orange bouncing against glossy surfaces. The wall tiles were a uniform dark brown, with cream grout, and the granite countertops were a void-black. Each cabinet, black cherry wood, had been carved with blossoms and insects, the handles built into the design. It gave the room a tender, enclosed feel. Like being buried alive, comfortingly. 

The music of Chopin drifted through the kitchen, emanating from a beautiful record player set up in the corner, next to a mahogany knife block. The needle traced the record inside its case, echoing unbroken orchestral melodies around the room. It was quiet, but calm.

Along the wall, a metal rack held copper pots and pans, and larger knives. A row of sushi knives hung from hooks under a ceiling cabinet, the gyuto and santoku showing more wear than the others, from sharpening and discolouration. Each blade shone in the light, showing off the Japanese symbols along their faces, closer to the blunt edge than the sharp.

But the centrepiece, the gem of the kitchen, were the butcher’s knives, set above the window to watch over it all. Five of them for taking apart animal carcasses. Carving, removing bones, hacking apart. They could make an hour's work fly past like a minute. All of them were kept with care, sharpened to a razor’s edge at all times, the most well-loved tools in the kitchen.

Missing from the display were the cleaver and carving knives, though they hadn’t gone far. By the stove, a young man stood over a hunk of meat, looking over it with the cleaver in hand. He sighed and took a moment to breathe as the calm piano notes washed over him. By his side, an assortment of vegetables, a bottle of cooking wine, and seasonings. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, and he smiled.

Cooking was his vice. It came naturally to him, but he’d had over a decade of experience too. He spent days working on ideas and sharpening knives and growing fresh herbs in his small garden. He’d be content doing it all for himself, but he had another mouth to feed. His roommate. They shared the house (and a room) and had a pleasant arrangement set up. He would cook, his roommate would clean, they would both give each other time to themselves. It gave him ample time to experiment with meals.

Still, some things he hadn’t tried yet, and he would love to if he had the chance. Obsessive, almost, how he worked on each meal. Simple breakfasts made with precision, impressive, complicated dinners, shining with effort. Today he was going back to basics. Something familiar, easy, and delicious.

He knew this kitchen like he knew his own mind. Where the liquor cabinet hid away in an unsuspecting corner, how each knife pried away from its magnetic or fish hook hold, what oven settings best suited each meal. The organisation of it reminded him of a brain, chaotic and web-like in its layout, but not untidy. All things had their place.

Cutting into the meat, he let his mind wander to the reading he’d done today. A new book added to his collection about curses and how best to inflict them. Only some people could understand magic like that. He tried his best to respect it, like a hunting dog, it’d bite him if he got too close. But with little magics being lived out every day, through virtue of people existing, he knew being careful wasn’t hard.

Another book in his arsenal dated back to the 1800s, talking about the strange beauty of ‘mutated’ half-people. They were known as hybrids now, and were as common as anything, their animal features making them obvious to the average person. Of course, they weren’t treated well back in the time of his book’s publishing, but they weren’t culled either, rather seen as miracles of nature. Nowadays that sort of thing didn’t matter at all, not with so many hybrids about. Normalisation. It was magic all the same.

The meat twitched as he hit a nerve, triggering a ripple of muscle memory. He always found it fascinating how freshly butchered meat could still move after death, making it seem alive even to the non-superstitious. To amuse himself, he tapped the point of his knife into the flesh, watching the last shudders of life leave it with a fixed expression, letting the disturbing nature of it excite the sadist within. 

Delicate music brushed the scene, growing to a crescendo as he seasoned the meat with different herbs and spices. It would take a while to cook, but not too long, so he’d have time to prepare the vegetables and sauce while it did. Maybe he’d make a beef wellington soon. He had some meat left over in the fridge. 

The front door clicked open somewhere elsewhere in the house, indicating that his roommate was home. God, he could almost hear the man smelling the air, checking to see if anything had been cooked yet. Alas, the amazing smells were yet to waft through the house, and his roommate wandered back to their room. He heard the bedroom door close. To work or to rest, he didn’t know. The man just knew not to bother him when he was cooking. 

He turned his attention back to the food, smiling to himself as he continued to prepare tonight’s meal. They hadn’t shared lunch today, so this would be nice. He chopped an onion to the time of the music in his ears, and set up a pan on the stove, letting his body take him on autopilot. Soon, the entire house would smell sweet. Soon… 

\--------------

Detective Karl Jacobs pushed open the office door without knocking. A scowl settled on his face when he saw the tall, stressed-looking man in the centre of the room, standing over a collection of documents and photographs. God, he hated police stations. The man jumped when the door slammed against the wall, turning to the detective with trembling hands.

Karl rolled his eyes. They had called him in on an urgent basis, which would be fine if he wasn’t in the middle of dinner with his friend at the time. This kind of thing was damn annoying. But duty calls, he supposed, and he needed the money anyhow.

“Mr Harlington. Hi,” he said. The man might have been police, an investigator of some sort, but Karl didn’t really care. If they couldn’t deal with a case by themselves, he had no reason to respect them or their practices. What’s the point of them if they can't catch criminals on their own?

He shook Harlington’s hand. “Detective Jacobs, it’s good to meet you.” He’d be more hospitable, give the man some slack, but he was pissed-off, tired, and bitter. Which Karl Jacobs wasn’t often. Without looking Harlington in the eye, he turned to the photos on the office desk.

“Tell me about the case,” he said, moving a few of the pictures with his hand and skimming over the written notes about each victim. Usually, he saw a lot of dead young women in these kinds of cases. Not this time, apparently.

The man behind him coughed. “Five dead over two years, all killed in the same way. You can take a look for yourself.”

He certainly could. The photographs showed a grizzly set of crime scenes, along with names and descriptions of the murders. They had left each body in an alleyway, or on a road, where people were bound to find it. Karl grimaced. Some of the locations were far too close to his house. 

Each body had a regular photograph of their face next to it, attached with a paperclip. All of them were men, all of them convicted of previous crimes, and all of them very wealthy. Karl wondered if any of them served jail time for whatever they did (assault, manslaughter, hard drugs). Probably not.

The bodies interested him. When found, they had no injuries anywhere but their chests. Split open around the ribs with their hearts removed. He questioned the nickname they’d given the killer. ‘The Butcher’ didn’t seem very fitting. He wasn’t butchering anything, just taking their hearts and getting away. But why? Because they were criminals? Why not go for less important men? Why kill people so dangerously rich? Jealousy?

But then why take their hearts? What’s the point? He never liked nicknames for killers, but this one made him angry with how stupid it was. The flood of questions would be useful later, though, so he appreciated the extra notes, even the stupid ones.

One man’s face reminded him far too much of his housemate. “Oh, God.” Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten before coming to the station. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about Sapnap, chest burst open like some horror movie, heart ripped out and corpse left to rot. Flies lay eggs in his face. Standing on his dry, open eyes and digging into the tear-ducts. Maggots crawl into every crevice, ruining him, eating his skin away, decaying him from the inside out.

“We thought a private detective might be best for this.” Harlington broke him away from his thoughts. Ugh. Damn his imagination. He felt sick as Harlington walked back over to the documents, picking up a few photo cards. His hands shook as he turned them over. Was the man shaken, or did he have a tremor?

A sigh left his body. “Aren’t people working on it?” Honest to God, he didn’t know if he wanted to work this case. It freaked him out, as all serial killers did, how someone could murder and not hate themselves for it. Plus, this case didn’t seem all that interesting. This kind of case disgusted him and shook him to the core. Just looking at the images made him queasy, all that gore not sitting right, and something else bothered him, too. The way he could imagine himself doing the same damn thing, if he didn’t feel bad about it afterwards. He’d always thought he’d be able to kill if the victim was enough of a bastard. 

He’d never interviewed a serial killer after catching them. There had been three other times, each one equally horrific and leaving him a little less kind to the world. Sapnap always told him to stop, go into a different field, retire. He said he made too much money to quit. He was right.

Talking to those killers would have made good headlines. Interview with a psychopath, and so on. But he could never bring himself to do it. It scared him. Scared him in talking to the people he caught, he’d find he sympathised with them, and nothing frightened him more than that. Nothing other than becoming a killer himself.

Harlington seemed hesitant to speak. “People go missing all the time. It’s just that usually we find their bodies. And we did!” Obviously. Karl resisted the urge to punch the man in the face. “We found these, but they… It's like the killer wanted them to be found. Others go missing and never show up again. It could be two separate cases, but…”

“I’ll take the case.” Karl cut him off with a wave of his hand. The bait he needed had been put in place. That little bit of mystery. Intrigue.

The man smiled, bright and wide and irritating. “Brilliant! Thank you, thank you. You have no idea how much this means.” He had a pretty good idea of what it meant. Getting a serial killer off the streets and saving some people who were due to get murdered. Not hard to figure out. Whatever.

Karl shook his head. “It’s my job. Have to pay the bills somehow.” Sapnap was in school, training to become a clinical psychiatrist, but he wasn’t qualified yet. They lived on whatever Karl earned, and if there were no cases, that meant no cash. The joys of being a private detective. Harlington seemed to find humour in what he said, anyhow.

“Of course. Well, I’ll leave you to your work. Good luck, detective.” And with that, he scampered away, hands still shaking as he closed his office door. Karl stood in the centre of the room, rubbing his temples. 

His phone pinged in his pocket, and he groaned. Probably Sapnap asking where he is. He’d have to explain later. Tell him not to go out on his own. Not that he fit the description of the men they found, but if random people were going missing… he had a lot of files to look into.

By God, this was going to be a long night. But he’d be damned if it wasn’t interesting. So many questions, so few answers. Karl couldn’t help but crack a smile. This case might make him sick, and have him revisiting his old therapist, but it’d at least be fun. Whoever this ‘Butcher’ was, they’d be behind bars in no time. 

\--------------

They sat across the table from each other, at both ends with a few good metres between them. A deep red tablecloth covered the beaten mahogany like blood, matching the velvet cushions built into the chairs. In the centre there sat a neat candelabra, flame licking the air like a hungry dog to a bone. 

At one end of the table, a man framed with curling ram's horns, twisting around his animalistic ears and ending in sharp points to cast a deadly silhouette. At the other, The Butcher, hands brushing the silverware in front of him as he bowed his head to avoid his housemate's eyes.

In front of both men, ceramic plates lay dormant on placemats, each holding a carefully constructed meal. Tonight's choice consisted of medium-rare steak (though with the way it bled onto the plate, medium-rare was a generous observation) with roasted carrots, greens, and a rich wine sauce. It looked like something from a gourmet kitchen. It might as well have been, as The Butcher was a gourmet chef of his own making.

"Shall we say grace?" The ram said, ears twitching. His yellow eyes sparkled with something sinister as he spoke, hints of humour at someone else’s expense. He liked to draw things out, sometimes, but praying before meals wasn’t unusual. Saying grace made sense for someone who read the bible each day and owned several beaten copies of the same text.

It felt mocking to practice religion in their unholy company, but The Butcher wouldn’t deny him. He nodded, appeasing the ram by clasping his hands together and closing his eyes. He seemed on-edge. Waiting.

The ram closed his eyes too. His prayers were muttered under his breath, a simple thankful thing, requests of forgiveness long forgotten in the mists of his sin. So much sin. Ever since they met. He used to be a God-fearing man, perhaps he still was, but no amount of begging could pull their immortal souls out of Hell, now. Not when he didn’t mean it. So where lay the point?

He knew he couldn't stop. No matter how many confessions (not the Catholic kind, though his faith was mixed) or attempts to become better, or therapy sessions left unattended. Nothing could help him like this. No sweeter release. Sinning felt too good. It always did.

The Butcher's eyes were on him. Of course they were. Always, always being watched. It had been years now; he didn't mind it anymore. He opened one eye, letting a horizontal pupil match those looking at him. A smirk dashed across his face. Joking. Playful. Not mocking, never mocking. But fun.

"I'm done." The Butcher lowered his hands, making a move for his knife. He paused, then, and looked to the ram. When he saw the bastard's eyes closed and head down in prayer again, he cursed. A part of him wanted to start, anyway. Another part of him knew that was stupid, that’s what he wanted him to do, so he could tease his impatience. Not today.

It wasn't conventional, their agreement. They were roommates in the dullest sense, partners in the way people least expected, and friends only for convenience. Of course, they cared about each other. You don't live two-and-a-half years with someone and feel nothing for them. They slept in the same bed, for God's sake. Still, they wouldn't call each other anything more or less than criminals who happened upon one another at the right time. It'd be a lie to say what they had wasn't love.

But love comes in different forms. The Butcher would call what they had Mania, the ram would call it Ludus. Many would call it 'fucked up', but they tended not to listen to the many. Had he manipulated the ram? A little, perhaps, in the early days. But his own weak-willed heart drew him to stay. The Butcher couldn’t be blamed for that.

Murder isn't a popular love language. Neither is making steaks out of a human corpse and serving them for dinner on a cold November night. They didn't do things the popular way. That's quite what they loved about it.

Finally, the time for prayer was over. "Okay, I'm done." The ram's sharp eyes opened once more, blinking a few times to adjust to the room's light (it was dimly lit, but the triple candle flames made it harder for those with strange pupils). Then thin fingers found a sharp knife and three-pronged fork, and it was time to begin.

For them, meals were especially important. Not only because of the often… unique nature of the meat, but because of the time and care that The Butcher put into each plate of food. The ram cut a small piece from the steak before him, watching the dark wine sauce mingle with the red of blood on his plate, both colours swirling together in some twisted dance of murderous nature.

Sometimes it was hard to battle with his own morals. Who had to die for the pleasure of this meal? What poor innocent just trying to get home from work, or go out to the shops, or meet with a friend did The Butcher slaughter for their own gain? And why did it feel justified as soon as the fork came up to his mouth?

The draw system they constructed made sure no children, nor people with children, were ever chosen. This helped clear guilt from the less-murderous of the two. Still, the thought of being hunted and butchered like that haunted him. It stalked his dreams, just like inevitable Hellfire, and had him running like prey within a forest, or down a long road, or in his house. They say don’t dine with cannibals, but he felt it a little late for that.

Though, when murder tasted so good, who would blame them? The meat was perfect. The power that came with it more so. It always was. The Butcher had cut through half of his steak already, a ravenous and feral light flashing behind his eyes. The ram was slower, as to not make himself sick (both with the rush, and the concept itself) but that gave him time to savour it, appreciate The Butcher's creation, and forget about his morality for a while.

Indulging in it so thoroughly had to be his greatest sin. Helping The Butcher wouldn’t send him to Hell, but enjoying what came from it would. It tasted like pork and beef, sometimes more one than the other, but also something so much more than that. 

When they'd first met, The Butcher had fed him a similar meal. The only difference then was that he didn't quite know what it was. Their argument had lasted weeks, and The Butcher was apologetic, explaining that he didn't know how the ram would react, and asked him if this changed the fact that he’d praised the cooking the week before. 

No, the cooking had been amazing. Everything The Butcher made was amazing. And it made sense. He agreed now that it was for the best to keep the truth from him.

If he had been scared off at that point, he would have never known such a heaven as the one he experienced in the present day. Flavour lingered at the back of his throat, wine and onion and blood, which he never thought he would enjoy, melting together again as he took another piece. How beautiful. How elegant.

They performed a horribly sophisticated form of the crime, didn't they? Sitting at an expensive table, dimmed lights, candles (almost romantic) with pretty patterned plates and food that took hours to make. If they pretended, it wasn't even human flesh at all. It was so easy to think of it as anything else. At least for the ram, never seeing the corpses, never hearing the screams, going out to avoid it all.

But the taste was distinct. Distinct in how morbid and disgusting it was, how sweet on the tongue and how like caramel it went down. Perhaps that was just the cooking. Neither man would trade it in for the world.

And maybe it was how they saw each other. How they found each other. The Butcher's eyes always caught the ram as he ate, finding a fascination in how he had coaxed the other into his passions so swiftly. It's a man with moral standings weaker than his devil's temptation to fall into such a life. 

The temptation of the devil. Cannibalism is what it was. Or, well, there could be some plausible deniability in that claim, in The Butcher's eyes. At least one of them was inhuman enough for it to be considered pure aiding in murder instead. No extra charges, with the right lawyer, and an ample amount of dehumanisation.

They didn't need a lawyer. They were never found out. Years of it and no one ever knew. Terrible, perhaps, but a life they found worth living. 

In another life, The Butcher would have been a professional chef. He was good enough for it, certainly so if he could make human flesh taste so close to godliness. No school would take him, not after seeing his permanent record so full of vandalism and charges for hunting without a license. They should have looked past the petty crimes.

Petty crimes. They turn into this. But this wasn't so bad. He had a good life, plenty of money (his roommate owned a very important business, the reason they met) and an outlet to carry out his passion. He even had a basement, soundproofed to keep the screams in, and a walk-in freezer. Not that anyone lived near their little house, anyway.

One day, he might just have to destroy it all. He kept a keen eye on his roommate, watching him with his full attention now that he'd finished his meal. His gaze wandered, against his will, to the man's neck, moving as he chewed. The Butcher couldn't help but wonder how the muscles in the throat would look all cut open and splayed out for him. He imagined it would look good.

Eating his roommate was off the table. They were friends, just about, and they had a perfectly delicate relationship. A good, mutually beneficial life. It'd be a shame to waste a perfect agreement, anyhow.

"Stop staring. Stop... skinning me with your eyes." The ram gave a laugh at his own joke. Bastard. He'd noticed, then. That’s embarrassing. The Butcher smiled and shook his head, turning to look somewhere else. Maybe the carpet had something more interesting to say. 

He heard a scoff. "I'm just joking. You can watch. I'm used to it, murderer." The Butcher met his eyes with faux-annoyance. The air smelt like smoke, wine, and burning sugar.

"Whatever. Like you can talk. You love this." If the empty plate was any sign, his roommate didn't have any ideas of leaving. Not soon, anyway. He’d stay in this moment until his last breath, if he could. 

The taste of metal filled The Butcher's mouth. It seemed he'd bitten his tongue. That mattered little. What mattered was the man in front of him, laughing into his wine, looking oh so casual about this. So casual about what he’d done, and what they would continue to do.

He took a sip and smiled, yellow eyes gleaming. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." 

**Author's Note:**

> I am gay and going through it TM. Have a wonderful day and drop a comment xoxo


End file.
